Morning Banality

A couple of weeks ago, our dryer stopped drying things. I'm generally pretty lenient towards the appliances--I don't expect the refrigerator to tell me when the sour cream has gone bad, I don't blame the washer for failing to warn me that I need to remove felt tip markers from pockets before starting a load of laundry, and I don't expect the toaster oven to scrape the burned cheese off of its little heating element. But I can't get behind a clothes dryer that doesn't actually dry clothes, so we had an appliance repair dude come to the house, and he installed a new motor. The dryer dries again. However, it's now much noisier than it was before. It's not an altogether unpleasant noise. It's a very steady triplet/dotted-quarter/sixteenth/dotted-quarter/sixteenth rhythm. It's like I have a troupe of Irish step dancers in my basement.

Mr. Banality was in the City of Brotherly Love this weekend for a professional conference. When he's out of town, I realize that the house makes all kinds of noises that I don't usually notice. The hot water heater mumbles, and the refrigerator whimpers like a puppy (maybe it is trying to tell me something about the sour cream after all).

hiatus from blogging, but not from banality

Forgive me, readers, for I have sinned. It's been 11 days since my last blog entry.

This isn't terribly surprising. The poor, unfortunate Banality Blog can now join my jazz scat etude book, embroidery needles, and yoga mat on the Island of Misfit Hobbies. The novelty wears off quickly for me.

The truth is that I spend way too much time with my computer as it is. In a typical 10 or 12 hour work day, I spend at least 5-7 of those hours using my computer. So, this blogging thing was a stupid hobby choice from the get-go. Mr. Banality was happy that I had started to spend more time on my next career as a torch singer because he assumed I would be working with other musicians, but now he's disappointed because the "other musicians" live inside my computer. (They keep good time, and they never complain about running a song for the 100th time, but they never want to go out for a few drinks after rehearsal.)

Onto recent banality: I mentioned before that I have a mystery subscription to Lucky magazine, "the magazine about shopping and style." Sometimes I imagine that somewhere out there I have a very shallow benefactor who enjoys engaging in random acts of not-terribly-useful-but-entertaining kindness.

Anyway, included with this month's issue was a supplement called Movies ROCK. I was looking forward to reading more starlets' descriptions of the yummiest lip gloss and the joys of having a pop of neon in an otherwise neutral palette. Instead, this supplement included an article about Tommy, the 1975 rock opera. Here's a quote from the article, written by James Wolcott:

Physically abused, sexually molested, chemically vandalized, this Tommy--"the first autistic hero in the history of opera" (Goldman), who shuts down after he's witness to the primal Freudian scene of seeing his mother's lover murder his father after the father catches them in flagrante delicto--is a Kasper Hauser-ish specimin whose victimization and exploitation supply the crucible of redemption and the catapult into stardom.

Um, k . . .

Lucky magazine, shouldn't you be telling me what Heidi Klum has learned from Project Runway or which off-the-shoulder dresses I could wear for day? Keep your high-falutin', source-citin' Vanity Fair crap out of my inane shopping magazine! Sheesh.

And, in case you were wondering, the answer to Question 1 from above: "Being a designer is hard!" The answer to Question 2: Me, wear an off-the-shoulder dress? Are you effing kidding me?

Viva La Viva (a.k.a. how I got duped by social psychological phenomena)

You've been waiting to hear news of our furniture situation. What? You haven't? Oh. Well, you're getting some anyway. Banality at its most banal.



Mr. Banality and I have been discussing our living area and how it's not great for entertaining because it's somewhat uncomfortable. We'd like to have a living room that makes people want to hang out for hours rather than a living room that makes people keenly aware that their backs hurt and that they shouldn't have taken so much eggplant tapinade because, frankly, it doesn't taste that great.


We had multiple discussions about this. The result of the first discussion was that we had our 120-year-old couch reupholstered. I'm not exaggerating. It's an old couch. We had it recovered in a dark brown hemp fabric, with enough left over for Mr. Banality to make several purses, bags, and a skirt, which I happen to be wearing now. When I sit on the couch, it looks like my thighs are missing. No wise cracks about that, please.


Next, we looked for additional seating. Should we get a couple of nice chairs? With ottomans? Should we get a loveseat? Some sectional pieces? Unfortunately, we have what is considered odd taste here in the heartland. We aren't that excited about ultra poofy recliners that look like shar-peis and have built-in cupholders. Not trying to be elitist--we just don't like the way they look. We looked for things locally, but our local furniture store has to make a living, you know? They can't stock furniture for weirdos like us. We then took a day trip to the nearest funky university town and found only really expensive things that weren't quite right anyway.


We looked online, and that's when we found the Viva:

It's a sectional by designer Todd Oldham for La-Z-Boy. Oh, that Todd Oldham. He's so quirky and fun, and now he's creating designs that normal people like us can afford! This might work. We considered getting a corner section and an armless chair, which we could put together as sort of a chaise longue for reading and then separate for entertaining.

We went back to our local furniture store last Saturday. They carry La-Z-Boy merchandise, but mostly of the shar-pei variety. They directed us to a store that we hadn't visited the last time were were in the funky university town. Why did we miss it the first time around? It's in a pole barn. And the ugly pieces were showing in the front windows. And they had "fall harvest sale" posters. And it's called Town and Country Furniture. So, come on. You can't blame us, really.

Our local furniture fella called them last Saturday, just to make sure that they did carry the line (he is really a decent joe, that local furniture guy), and then Mr. Banality also called last Monday to double-check. We traveled there this past weekend, thrilled with the prospect of finding some decent seating. Mr. Banality crammed a piece of flooring and some cloth that matches our walls into one of his couch-fabric bags so that we could choose fabric for the Viva, if we decided that we wanted to get it. We began to vividly imagine ourselves reading on the corner section + armless section, all huddled under a throw. We could clearly see our friends having humorous and relaxed conversation while seated oh-so-comfortably on the individual pieces that we would spread out during one of our fabulous get-togethers. Yes, the Viva would do quite nicely. Maybe not the perfect solution, but a good solution for now.

We arrived at Town and Country Furniture and sat for quite a while on another Todd Oldham piece (they did not have the Viva in stock) while poring over the fabric samples. Was apricot too risky? Oatmeal too light? Garnet too close to the color of our walls? We finally made our decision: herb.

Are you really still reading this? Wow. Anyway, we approached the counter, and the salesperson who had helped us (and who also happened to talk with Mr. Banality on the phone earlier that same week) informed us that La-Z-Boy was discontinuing "some" of the Todd Oldham designs. The boss had crossed out the models that had been discontinued. Apparently, La-Z-Boy was in the process of "phasing them out." The boss had made this revision on Monday. Which was the day Mr. Banality had called to inquire about the Viva.

They were all crossed out. Every single one of them. We were disappointed. We looked at the regular La-Z-Boy catalog and the Lane catalog and looked at some of the things they had in stock. We were disgusted by the offerings. WE WANTED THE VIVA. Suddenly, the Viva was clearly the most perfect form of seating ever invented, and we had to have it. The salesperson said that she would call on Monday to find out if it would be at all possible for us to order the Viva, even though it was being "phased out."

We were not optimistic, but we agreed that we would jump on the chance to get the Viva if we could. Scarcity and all, you know. We were flooded by the regret-inducing counterfactuals. If only we had come by the first time we were in the funky university town! Reactance also was strong: how dare La-Z-Boy deny us the opportunity to have furniture that could improve our social lives! How unfair! They can't even spell "lazy" correctly! We now wanted the Viva more than ever.

We drowned our sorrows in a lunch of tempeh and veggie burgers and barley (we were in the funky university town, after all) and then headed home. We tried to make other furniture plans; we tried to look for other options, but they just weren't the Viva. The Viva had been our last hope.

The woman from Town and Country Furniture called today. We could order the Viva. We did--the corner section and the armless chair (oh, and the ottoman, too).

We'll have you over when it arrives. We hope you'll like it. We know we will.

FYI: Today is Halloween

So, why was beggars' night last night? This town is messed up. I was home early, for once, and I was typing away on my computer when the doorbell rang. It was my 4-month-old goddaughter, dressed in a monkey suit, accompanied by her mom. What I suddenly realized was that while I do not like monkeys dressed as people, I do like people dressed as monkeys. Especially baby people dressed as baby monkeys.

As I stood in the doorway, gushing over the unbearable cuteness of this baby and wondering, "Is tonight beggars' night?" a smallish vampire climbed my stoop and rang the bell. My friend was laughing at me because I was panicking. I had nothing in the house suitable for a trick-or-treater. I quickly ran through the options: a handful of chocolate chips? an ancient throat lozenge? a butternut squash?

I said to the boy and his mother, "I'm sorry, we just got home and aren't ready for trick-or-treaters yet." I don't know why I used the royal "we." I guess I thought it would make me seem like less of a loser if I didn't have to own this oversight all on my own. The woman gave me a scornful look--the kind that communicates disgust over failure to comply with basic social norms; the kind of look you reserve for someone who cuts in line or picks their nose in public. I wanted to yell, "You're the freak, lady! You're all freaks! It's not even Halloween!"

This problem happened last year as well, and I couldn't bear the thought of disappointing my Spanish professor colleague's kids again, so I quick like called Mr. Banality and ordered him to bring home candy. Which he did. But he didn't buy fun size Snickers or those super sticky peanut butter candies that come wrapped in black and orange paper and pull out your teeth if you attempt to chew them or even (*shudder*) Smarties. He bought Werther's Original butterscotch candies. One bag was in the sugar-free version. Another was coffee flavored. Apparently, I am married to a senior citizen.

I did get a kick out of the sugar-free Werthers because they have a warning on the back that "excessive consumption may have a laxative effect." And I secretly liked thinking about greedy little kids excessively consuming them and facing the consequences.

This little evil streak that I have when it comes to trick-or-treaters comes from my bitterness about beggars' night around here. Honestly, I think that the trick-or-treaters around these parts are lazy little bastards. I believe this because in my neighborhood, when I was a kid, you had to tell a joke before you'd get your treat. Most kids used the tried and true jokes they'd heard on a local TV station's cartoon show, Duane and Floppy. Between Warner Brothers cartoons, children in the studio audience would stand in line to tell jokes to Floppy, a dog puppet, and Duane Elliott, a man with long sideburns and wide lapels who had his hand stuck inside the dog puppet. There were two jokes that were popular on the show:

Why did the man put the car in the oven? Because he wanted a hot rod.

and

What's the biggest pencil in the world? Pennsylvania.

Thus, those became the most popular jokes on beggars' night. Those were the days, I'm telling you. Safety be damned. Forget about reflective clothing and trick-or-treating only at familiar houses. And kids wore those plastic clown and princess masks that completely obstructed their vision and made them sweat profusely--the masks with the little hole by the mouth that children couldn't resist sticking their toungues through repeatedly, making them look like mental patients on too much Thorazine. The masks often made it impossible to actually understand the joke, but the content was predictable, so the interaction often went like this:

CHILD: Buh thlth mm bd crrn ih vnn?
PERSON AT DOOR: I don't know. Why?
CHILD: Bcz huh wntd hr od!
PERSON AT DOOR: HA! HA! A hot rod! That's a good one! Here you go--take a couple. I really like your completely black costume. I didn't even see you as you were crossing the street to come over here!

If I have kids, they'll tell jokes on beggars' night. And people will think they're weird, I'm sure, but how could they not turn out weird anyway, what with a parent who doesn't have a supply of candy ready for trick-or-treaters on October 30th?

Things I Learned Today

When I was in high school, I had a crush on a boy who was my friend. I didn't tell anyone about it because I was fairly certain that he "didn't think about me in that way," and we had all of our classes together, and I didn't want him to find out that I liked him and then things would be awkward. He played bass guitar in his brother's band (why yes, I have always had a thing for bass players). His brother's band was called The NEVVER (so eighties, no?). Their music was reminiscent of The Doors and Rush, with lots of variable time signatures and minor key signatures. The lyrics of one song were randomly generated by computer (the members of the NEVVER were computer geeks--big surprise, I know). One line was, "The wimp drops the tape/the tape falls on the bus." It had a triple/duple meter thing going on. Anyway, sometimes I suspect that my students generate papers in the same manner. Exhibit A:

"Since most research has been done the fact of conducting research of students that are in high school and college, it would seem to be logical and necessary."

I think you see what I mean.

Another thing I learned today:

"The phenomenon of criminal behavior has existed among humankind for centuries, and yet, despite its long history, criminal behavior has escalated into an uncontrollable frenzy."

Sweet Lord Almighty! Hide your valuables and your women and children--criminal behavior has apparently escalated into an uncontrollable frenzy!

Mama's Got a Brand New Bag

I used to work at a small, private, liberal arts college in Ohio. The students there were very fashion-forward and dressed up to go to class. It's very different from my current place of employment, where one time, a guy in the front row of the lecture hall sat with his sweatpants around his ankles (yeah, he was wearing shorts underneath, but it was still disturbing), and just last week, a student came to class wearing Sponge Bob Square Pants pajama bottoms and bedroom slippers--and not the kind of bedroom slippers that can pass for shoes, but the really fuzzy ones.

Back when I was at the school in Ohio, I became very confused when I began to see a number of fashionable young women carrying this type of bag:

My first thought was, "What the . .(?)" I predicted that if I were to look inside one of these bags, I would find a plastic rain bonnet, a Medicare card, and a lint-covered Wint-O-Green Lifesaver. But a trip to a "boutique" revealed that these bags were designer bags. They were Vera Bradley bags. And they were très chère. Oh.

Well, Vera Bradley needs to watch her back because there's a new sheriff in Mature-lady-bag Town, and his name is Mr. Banality. While cleaning out my grandmother's house, my mom found a piece of quilted fabric that she thought might make a nice bag. After holding onto this fabric for 10 years or so, she decided to send it to my craft ninja husband to see if he could do anything with it. And could he ever. Check it:

Vera Bradley, you just got OWNED.

My mom is going to love this bag. First, even I have to admit that it's painfully cute. I love Mr. Banality's decisions on color and the mix of the print and solid. [Insert squealing and clapping about here.] But the real reason that my mom will love it is because she adores Mr. Banality. He's like the child she's always wanted, one who shares her interests and treats her with a modicum of respect. Whatever.

Also, like me, my mom gets giddy when people do thoughtful things for her. Finally, her friend has an authentic Vera Bradley bag, and I'm sure that my mom will be beside herself when she gets to show off the Mr. Banality original. Her very tiny rebellious streak will make her thrilled to inform her friend that not only was the bag created from fabric found in an elderly woman's house and a thrift store (and that the small bit of new fabric in the bag is organic), but also that it was handcrafted by her gender-role-defying SON-in-law. *gasp*

So, I have a couple of days off later this week, and I am planning to spend those days basking in Mr. Banality's reflected crafting glory. And figuring out Band-in-a-Box. And maybe grading some papers.

Sorry! We're CLOSED.

I'm an anxious person. This isn't news to anyone. During daylight hours, I do a fine job of avoiding a constant state of panic by using nifty cognitive strategies. Hey! Psychology is useful, as it turns out.

But things are different in the middle of the night.

After a few hours of sleep, my frontal lobes shut down for the evening. They apparently cash out for the night, turn out the lights, and pull down one of those metal gates, which will be locked until morning. My limbic system, in contrast, is OPEN 24 HRS. That joint is always jumpin'.

Say, for example, that some noise wakes me up at 1:30 a.m.. What was the noise? Probably the axe murderer who's wandering around the house. My feet are itchy. Why are my feet itchy? I have lymphoma! What now?!

My ability to consider parsimony is greatly impaired at 1:30 a.m.. Mr. Banality is not home yet. Where is he? Two possibilities: (1) he and his friends have decided to play a third game of Ticket to Ride or (2) he is dead. I decide that the latter is highly probable. I call Mr. Banality. He is alive.

Something stirs in the frontal lobes--maybe it's the cleaning crew that steam cleans the upholstery up there in the middle of the night--and tells me that I'm being ridiculous.

I know this is correct. I am being ridiculous. I am ridiculous. Which, of course, means that I will be an absolute failure as a parent. You see, last week I watched a video describing a study of nature vs. nurture in the development of personality among baby rhesus monkeys. Like human babies, they're born with temperaments. Some are anxious; others are daring. They're very cute little creatures:

In the study described in the video, the researchers paired anxious babies with easy-going foster mothers, and the babies became less anxious. There was no discussion of the opposite pairing: easy-going babies and anxious foster mothers. Perhaps it was too unethical to even consider pairing a baby rhesus monkey with an anxious mother. You can see where my night-time brain was going with this line of thought. Clearly, I should not be allowed to adopt a child.

Mr. Banality arrives home and talks about how great our friends are. Do our friends hate me now? I'm fairly certain that they do. He plops into bed and quickly falls asleep, while I toss and turn and wait for the groggy, first-shift frontal lobe employee, armed with a cup of coffee from the Cinnabon in the nearby food court, to raise the gate and open for business.